


Lovers Lost

by Blue_Sunshine



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Aragorn had a long life., Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Drabble, Elves, Gen, Gondor, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Immortals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 13:39:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: Midnight drabble based on that clip in the movies, where you see Arwen standing before Aragorn's tomb. My thoughts on what might happen, when the immortal lose their mortal loves, and who might comfort her in her mourning.





	Lovers Lost

The immortal know too well, that even when great ages die, the world moves on.

She sits on barren stone, clad in her black veils, though even they cannot truly hide the shine of the bright blue of her eyes. She sits on barren stone, polished smooth and cold, and spring blossoms around her. Bright bursts of petals adorn every branch of every tree. Grass shoots up with new fronds, brighter and brighter green. Birds sing, and the breeze tastes of warmth.

Tears burn.

There was solace in winter. He died, and the world held still. Leaves fell, the sky grew dark, and all was held quiet and still in mourning, in the blue hold of a deep freeze. The cold had been bitter, and the stars had reached down to watch over her heartbreak.

But this? Flowers bloom, and the sun shines brightly, all the world laughing with new life, and it feels like a betrayal. It feels like she has lost him all over again. Why has the world not stopped? Does it not have a heart? Does it not bleed and grieve? Does it not know what it has lost?

What she has lost?

Tears burn, blurring the world, and fall.

Footsteps rise behind her, gentle on ungentle stone, and pause. Fingers rustle dried flowers and polished coins, offerings on the tomb of the Great King of Gondor. A soft touch slides over stone, and the widow closes her eyes. She knows that sound, knows that intimate line, tracing the strong edges of his face, now carved in marble immemorial.

“Is it a proper likeness?” The other asks, her voice far fairer than the widow had heard in some time. All but a few of her people are now far beyond her reach, and those that remained in this world…they did not travel here.

“Yes.” She whispers.

“He was handsome.” The other murmurs, and the widow can hear her steps trail around the tomb, and come closer. She huddles in her veils, arms wrapped around her knees like a child lost, cold hands pressed to her hollowed breast.

“He was old.” The widow laughs bitterly, fresh tears running down. “He clung so tightly to this life for me, and ever complained that he had grown so old, and I still…”

“He was young.” The other says, and steps down to draw low beside her, to sit also on cold stone, with spring lighting against their faces. Her hair gleams like fire, her fair skin shines, and her forest eyes look to her, deep wells of a kindred soul. “They died _young_ , and we remain.”

Her grief has not clouded her memory, her veils do not deceive her eyes – she knows who sits before her now. She has heard of the Red Maiden. A cautionary tale her father told her over and over, when he began to fear where her heart would lead her.

“I had almost all the years he could give me.” The widow says. “Nearly two centuries, nearly his _entire_ life.”

“I had less than the span of a moon.” The red maiden replies, with her sad, sweet smile.

“I had everything he was. His every victory and defeat, every folly and epiphany.” The widow cries, and it feels like breaking, it feels like a cheat. He had given her everything he was, and she could not do the same.

“I had only promises, of what he could be.” The other sighs softly. “And his heart, which he freely gave me.”

“Why?” The widow begs, needing to understand. Were they being punished? Was it such a crime, to follow ones own heart?

The maiden laughs. “What heart loves wisely?” She asks in turn. “It is not the nature of the heart to love wisely. It does not need to love wisely – _you_ do not need to love wisely. You only need to love well.”

“But it hurts.” The widow bows with her pain. “It hurts so much!”

“Let it hurt.” The maiden tells her. “Cry, bleed, scream. You have lost, yes, and it is such a loss that you feel you may need to die of it. But you have also loved. Let it hurt. No one can take it from you.”

“He’s gone. He’s gone!” She cries. “Can my heart not go with him? Can I not too be made stone?”

“Gone?” The maiden inquires, leaning towards her, like the sun towards the moon. She burns, and the widow shies away, withdrawing into her cold darkness. She cannot face the sun. “Do you think they fade so easily, like whispers lost in the wind?”

The widow looks up.

“Draw down your veils and open your eyes, daughter of light.” The maiden tells her fiercely. “He is out there still. You do not _bury_ love. It goes out into the world and leaves its mark. It is not a candle to be snuffed into smoke and nothing. It does not leave us so easily. Find his laugh in a child’s eyes. Find his smile in a river. Chase his memory through the woods, and his wisdom over mountains. Feel his kisses in the snow and dance with him where the land meets the sea. Death does not mean that they never lived.”

“Did you find him then?” The widow asks. “Your love, out there in the world?”

The maiden smiles, and looks to the sky.

“He told me of a fire moon once.” She says, a light rising in her eyes, her voice bright and clear. “In autumn, over the moors of dunnland…I went to see it with my own eyes, and when I found it – yes, he was with me.”


End file.
